Not Steve Jobs' Liver

Hi. I'm not Steve Jobs' liver. However, I am in his body these days. As you know, that's a big change. Before finding myself in Steve's chest cavity, I was cleaning the wastes and detoxifying things for someone else. Someone to whom I was attached since birth. The other guy and I grew up together.

You understand that leaving one person for another is a critical issue for a liver such as myself. The decision is difficult, but then gain, it's not. It was also out of my hands, so to speak. As you might imagine, the person who relinquished me was dead.

I do not possess any sensory equipment and therefore do not know what killed my original host. But he -- actually I do not know my host's gender -- treated me well. Not too much alcohol. A good diet. Though he was overly fond of Frank's Hot Sauce. Meanwhile, I did get a distress signal not long ago. It came down from the brain, and was followed by something that seemed like a soft hum. Then nothing.

As livers go, I've got a good disposition. Not a big bile producer. I hope that works for Steve. Some guys thrive on bile. Better than a double jolt of caffeine in the morning.

As we all know, a liver is necessary for survival. Thus, I hope Steve is in good shape otherwise. I would not want to go through another transplant experience. Based on what I've been able to deduce, first there's a devastating trauma, then we livers are suddenly on ice like fish in the market. After that we wait. Then it's back to work in new surroundings.

Fortunately, Steve's ribcage is roomy enough for me. But my thinking has gone fuzzy from all the drugs I've been fed lately. Anti-rejection drugs. A gift somewhat like the Welcome Wagon for those moving to a new neighborhood. As much as I appreciate the efforts and the good wishes these drugs express, I hope this changes soon because the drugs make me queasy.